The Barsoom Project

“Not so good, Tony. How’s Chino?”

“Another eight months and I’m out. Till then, I sleep on my back. I don’t suppose-” He finally seemed to see Millicent. “Scuse me. Have we met?”

“I don’t think so…”

“Tony. Tony McWhirter. Few years back The Griffin was responsible for sponsoring me into this boy’s club.”

She nodded. “Right.”

“Curiously enough, once I was here, he did just about everything he could to make it as comfortable as possible. Almost as if he had a bad conscience about the whole thing.”

“Why would Griff have that?” Millicent was not a good liar. She should have shown surprise.

“The very question. I’ve asked myself that one many times, and come to no useful conclusion. At any rate, I doubt that this is a social call. What’s the job, O Griffin?”

“Tony, I got you a work dispensation to get you points with the parole board and to keep you current on computers until we can get you out. If you’re smart enough to break our security system, I want you on our side.”

“La-de-dah, S.S.D.D. Same shit, different day. Come on, what’s the pitch? You need something, don’t you?”

“I surely do. I need you to investigate a man named Kareem Fekesh. Offices in the DuPont building, downtown Los Angeles. Find out everything you can about his involvement with Dream Park, Cowles Industries, as far back as you have to go. A lot of it will be hidden.”

“Do I get to violate his civil rights?”

“He’s not a citizen.”

Tony’s sardonic manner dropped away. He studied Griffin’s screen image with wonder and a little fear. “That doesn’t make it ethical. Anyway, it’ll take more computer time than they give me here.”

“Yes. Millicent will make one of the banks here available to you. Set up the program and let it run overnight if you have to. I need you to break security on his accounts, stockbrokers, banks, anything else.”

“Illegal too.”

“You’re a criminal, aren’t you?”

“Such a mouth. What’s in it for me? More time if I’m caught?”

“‘Tony, everything I’ve done for you was gratis, because I know you never wanted that guard to die. You do this for me, and you will have paid back everything, If you work it through the lines here at Dream Park, your legal risk is minimized.”

McWhirter stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I’ve only got eight months till parole. Maybe I’ll just coast.”

Millicent laughed.

Both men looked at her. She said, “Griff, he’d do it for the phone calls.”

Emotions chased each other across McWhirter’s face. Ultimately he said, “Millicent, wasn’t it? I’d like to meet you.”

“Meet? Sure, in eight months. Don’t count on anything till the second date.”

“No, just meet. You’re something. Griffin, she’s just barely wrong. I get lonely. It’s enough to drive me crazy. You have to meet these people. They never heard of role-playing games. They compete for who can remember the bloodiest scene in a slasher movie. They fight over what TV channel to watch! But this is dangerous. Isn’t it? I won’t die to get phone calls from The Griffin.”

The calls were that important to him? Alex found that unnerving. He said, “All right, Tony. This is the most I can say. If you can definitely prove that Fekesh was behind a takeover bid about ten years ago, or that his present involvement in the Park is malign, I’ll pull every string I’ve got, and we’ll get you out of there. You’ll have a job here waiting for you. Prove it in court, Tony.”

McWhirter thought. “In court. And he’s not a citizen. It’s a poor bet, Griffin.”

“And?”

“I have a holding account on BIX. Dump your data in there, along with my password and account number into Cowles. Unlimited access?”

“Don’t try to screw me, Tony. You play this straight, and your life will turn out fine. Try to take advantage, play with files you shouldn’t, and you won’t see sunlight until the next Ice Age.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n.” Tony signed off.

“Whew,” Millicent said. “That’s a hell of a day’s work.”

“I’m not through yet. Get me Kareem Fekesh.” Millicent routed the request through the switchboard, and from there a probe hunted for his whereabouts and finally located him in one of the theme hotels. The beeper sounded over and over, then a face of Middle Eastern extraction appeared on the screen.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“I need to talk to Mr. Fekesh.” Alex suddenly recognized him. It was Razul, from the War-Bots scenario.

Razul clearly didn’t recognize Griffin as anything but some random American. There might have been a gleam of satisfaction under those heavy eyebrows, or it might have been Alex’s imagination. “I’m sorry, but he is not available just now.”

“This is Alex Griffin, head of Dream Park Security.”

The man thought for a moment, and then the screen went blank. Alex drummed his fingers for a full minute, and then the screen came on again.

Fekesh was the picture, the very soul of elegance, and Alex had the distinct impression that he would have felt underdressed in a tuxedo.

“Yes, Mr. Griffin.” He spoke like a man on his way to catch a tube.

“I was wondering if I might speak to you for a few minutes. Person to person.”

“On what subject?”